


We Ain’t Cool-headed, Baby (We’re Juvenile)

by West_Coast_Moper



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Band Fic, Boys Kissing, Childhood Rivals, Crushes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Hand Jobs, Lack of Communication, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Jealousy, One Night Stands, Pining, vague wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/West_Coast_Moper/pseuds/West_Coast_Moper
Summary: "We'll be like Green Day on ice," Pete declared, one fist pumped up towards the ceiling of Patrick’s basement. Patrick, snuggled beneath a cocoon of blankets, glanced down at him, his facial features unimpressed."Please, for the love of god, don't describe it like that."Or the one where Pete and Patrick don’t like each other until they do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S YA BOY, BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE SHIT BAND FICS!!!  
> I thought it would be cool to write a band-fic with both Patrick and Pete being the same age. Dunno. It happened. It’s gonna be longish. Enjoy.

It began in first grade, Pete all scrawny, bones drawn up in excitement with his backpack too big and heavy over his spine as his knees jiggled anxiously. Several tiny children, most bigger than him, but a few smaller. Specifically, one was smaller than him with glasses propped up on his nose, reddish-blonde hair disheveled in fluffed up tufts.

Pete plopped himself down into one of the chairs. The desks were grouped together to make a table of four, where three other children sat. Two girls, one red-haired with freckles and two teeth missing in the front, while the other girl was brunette, with a shiny pink sequined-embellished purse wrapped around her arm. The third being the smaller boy, Pete had noticed earlier. The boy was sat next to him, his tiny feet dangling off the seat of his chair with his lips pushed up into a pitiful pout.

Pete grinned, his dazzling teeth put on display to make him seem friendlier as he jutted out a hand towards the smaller boy.

“Hi, I’m Pete!”

The boy glanced at him, nose wrinkling in distaste before he shot Pete a dirty look, and his arms crossed over his chest as he turned away. The corners of Pete’s lips sank and he pulled his hand back, face burning red in embarrassment from the wordless rejection.

The teacher came into focus, golden coils of silky hair bouncing with her red heels clicking obnoxiously against the speckled tile. Her pink lips were pulled taut into a large grin, smile filled with relief as she was finally freed from mollifying concerned parents that were just a tad bit too attached to their children.

Pete felt the humiliation in his body be overlayered with delight, his body wiggling in his chair from his electrified elation. The teacher’s words were simple, cheerful, and kind. All packed up into a white button-down shirt with an ashy pencil skirt. Pete thought she was pretty, liked her because she let them color, said creativity was one of their best attributes.

Pete colored his eager little heart out, a big box of crayons beside him as he used five of them at once to make a crooked rainbow to match his scrawled sun in the corner painted with a smile. Despite the earlier brush-off of the boy with glasses, Pete still offered his crayons to him with a smile.

That was a mistake.

The green crayon was the one necessary to really make the stem of his flowers pop along with the grassy exterior. However, the second he went to search for said crayon, he heard a snap. He lurched in his seat, eyes locking onto the shattered crown within the other boy’s hand and his bottom lip trembled.

“You broke my crayon,” it’s said muffled pathetically behind a snotty nose, but filled with vicious intent. Pete glared at the boy, molars grinding against one another. Their eyes met, the blonde’s never wavering, steadily eyeing him down with a raised brow. Pete’s face turned back to his paper with his mouth tugged down into frown.

“Oh, Patrick that isn’t very nice,” the teacher scolded, crossing her arms. The boy by the name of Patrick glanced at her with a glower.

“I’m not nice,” he replied with a tiny smirk. Pete’s lips puffed into a pout as the teacher shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Patrick.”

The boy. Patrick. His name was Patrick, he had glasses, wore sweaters, and Pete didn’t like him. Not one bit. That’s all he knew, all he cared to know. It was childish, of course. His mother always told him that he didn’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, so he didn’t.

That was why when Patrick went to line-up for gym, Pete not so accidentally tripped him over on the way there. The class exploded into a boisterous giggle. Patrick scowled at him from the floor, his cheeks dusted with a crimson red. Pete stuck his tongue out at him in retaliation.

It continued like that, two rivals at each other’s throats. They’d call each other names, start rumors, trip each other in the hallways, and they’d even strive to one-up each other during the famous show-and-tell.

Pete would bring in his coloring books, his artwork, things he held with pride, while Patrick would bring in candy to share. His grin would radiate smugness at Pete when kids lined up all around him for their own treat. Pete, of course, would refuse one. No matter how much he wanted one. No matter how many times the teacher said it was impolite to refuse a gift.

“No! I don’t want his gross candy!”

Pete didn’t like Patrick. Patrick didn’t like Pete.

It continued like that.

***

They lived on opposite sides of the street, war of the youngsters within a fantasy-like suburban atmosphere. Their mothers knew each other, were friends. Sometimes Pete got forced to stay over for dinner, both he and Patrick would make grumpy faces at each other throughout the evening, fought with silverware, and kicked each other under the table. Once they even started a semi-food-fight until their parents scolded them into submission.

They pelted each other with snowballs during the winter, made wise-cracks on each other’s behalf, would pull pranks on one another. One time, Pete remembered with a horribly wounded ego was on a hot summers day when he was eleven and Patrick and his older brother had gotten the drop on him with a dozen water balloons. He remembered stomping across the street angrily, clothes soaked and hugging his skin. His sneakers had squeaked and screeched against the hard-wooden floor of his home.

Pete’s mother had been concerned, had asked him what happened, but he only glowered in her direction. The skin around his eyes pink and wrinkled in annoyance as he seethed.

“Patrick happened,” he answered, a hard edge to his words. He thudded up the stairs afterwards and slammed his bedroom door shut, a trail of water droplets left forgotten behind him.

Pete remembered lying face-down in his bed, blankets surrounding him drenched and sticky against his skin. His stomach had felt heavy, a black ball of shame manifesting in his gut as he boiled with pent-up fury.

Pete hated Patrick.

***

In middle school, their dynamic was different. Pete secluded himself in dark clothing, painted his nails black with sharpie, and strummed bass along to the static of his radio during the late hours of the night. He stopped paying Patrick any attention, kept to himself more often than not, but still socialized when necessary.

Patrick on the other hand, took an interest in the school band, and he joined up. He was – okay, Pete could admit. The pep rallies were decent – not that Pete paid attention to them, or Patrick for that matter.

Pete became intrigued by the punk scene, the crowd of hooligans, threw himself down the street of delinquency, and enjoyed it. He played his music loud, rap, pop, metal, rock, whatever he could get a grip on with his fingertips.

Pete’s mother usually hollered and chided him over blasting his music at two in the morning, but all he did was flick his fingers, spinning the dial up. Neighbors typically shot him down with the stick-eye the next morning, especially Patrick. The blonde’s blue eyes gleamed with resentment from the sidewalk, his hands clenched into tiny fists. The dark circles around his eyes made Pete feel both superior and remorseful.

Patrick was a button-upped little dude, kept his lips sealed tight, and his expressions indifferent. He had his mass of peers, yeah, mainly his circle of band geeks allied around him, but Pete on the other hand enjoyed the company of few. Pete, no matter how hard his punk aesthetic roamed, was still intense enough to attract a crowd. His laugh was loud, braying, his mannerisms wild, and his smile the brightest of them all.

They both kept to themselves, scowled at each other from across the street on their route to the bus, but otherwise never spoke to one another. The pranks ceased, their contact was scarce, but Pete didn’t forget and neither did Patrick.

***

Pete’s always held a torch for music. It’s what kept him sane through times of distress when his mind didn’t work right, and he felt like his existence was flickering.

He remembered being snuggled up in the back of his dad’s car, body slumped down in the backseat, the radio blaring The Foundations. Pete hummed along to the words of Build Me Up Buttercup, his eyelids fluttering shut as his mind buzzed with content, his brain dizzy with bliss as the cheerful melody seeped into the crevices of his bones.

It was a thought that crossed Pete’s mind a lot. Whether he wanted to pursue music, take a chance, and be risky.

It was a thought.

***

Pete was fourteen when he started skipping class, bottled-up aggression fogging his brain, and his muscles cramped up from the stress. The voices of his teachers, all monotone and nonchalant sent him drowsy, made his skin itch, and he refused to sit still any longer. So, skipping became a habit.

Pete got in with the wrong crowd, boys and girls surrounding him in an alley-way behind their school, tongue piercings and jagged makeup, bubblegum-pink lips smiling wickedly at him, with metal core playing faintly in the background. They smoked, a joint running laps around them until Pete took a whiff and wheezed.

They joked, make fun of him, clapped him on the shoulder, and treated him like their fresh new-born to love and destroy.

It was cut short the second his school’s guidance counselor spoke to his parents, persuaded them to send him to some tough-love, scared-straight sleep-away program. Eight weeks of horror passed him by, every day filling his veins with dread, a special kind of venom staining his body gruesome. He’s grouped in with the other kids, demented, and satanic alike.

It was every day, his hand curled in desperation around the phone, other kids lined up behind him, his cheeks tear-stricken as he begged his parents to let him come home. The other kids looked down on him, saw him as weak, and something to play with. They roughed him up a bit, gave him a swelled lip, and a black eye.

They gave him something to really cry about.

Pete folded in on himself, locking his emotions up secure within his chest, rigid and unstable. He stopped talking when his throat became constricted, unable to voice the words he needed.

So, he wrote them.

Pete kept the dictionary and threw out the definitions. Pen scrawled over lined paper in an attempt to sort out his thoughts until he ran out of space. Without paper, he used his body, ink messy and smudged on the insides of his wrists and upper thighs. It helped, scribbling out his frustrations, but his words felt ugly, wrong.

Pete came home with zero pep in his step. The lines of his mouth faced the ground. His mother had yanked him into a bone-crushing hug. Pete had tensed in response, facial features wincing into discomfort until his mother loosened her grip. He returned the embrace briefly, arms squeezing slightly around before he let go.

He wanted to be rebellious, wanted to defy his parents in every single way, make them regret their decisions, but in truth, the only thing he did do was waddle up the stairs to his bedroom and sleep.

***

A week later, Pete’s sat outside on the porch, shoulders slumped, eyes closed, with his earbuds roaring tunes into his brain. When his eyelids flickered open, he was greeted with the sight of Patrick. Patrick stood in front of him, signature eyebrow raised up, and he was giving Pete a funny look, like he was aware of how odd this was. He had a plate in his hands, cookies trapped beneath saran wrap, and he turned his nose to the side.

“Blame my mom,” is what Patrick said when he plunked them down atop of the cement steps with a clunk and began to vamoose down the driveway. He froze when Pete opened his mouth to utter a soft “Thanks,” in appreciation.

“Yeah,” Patrick murmured, his words timid. He tugged his baseball cap over his eyes and lingered there for a couple of seconds before he trotted off down cement, crossing the street back to his house.

Pete stared the porcelain down with skeptic eyes, lips curved into a bemused frown. With cautious fingers, he unwrapped the plastic, and hoisted a chocolate chip cookie into the air. He bit into it with narrowed eyes, sugar and chocolate coating his taste buds. Pete’s mouth swerved to the left, brows twitching ever so slightly, and he huffed an annoyed breath.

The cookies were – they were okay.

They were gone by the time his parents came home, the only evidence left behind being wee crumbs.

***

Pete was fifteen when he threw himself down the band scene, rugged and bruised from mosh pits and breakdowns with his body lithe and slender from playing soccer on the regular. He was raucous, rowdy, and he was a trouble-maker, but only some of the time. He was social, lively, but he kept himself secluded. He knew people, but they didn’t know him. He lacked the air of mystery, but his secrets lied embedded under his skin.

Pete started off simple, just wanting to be a part of something. He messed around with a few bands, his first one named First Born. He experimented and probed his brain on if he wanted this or not. He snuck out more times than he could count, broke his window screen once, but never got caught for it. He even got himself tatted. The ink was illegal, brutal, and stained into his lower back. It wasn’t refined or flawless, but Pete cherished it.

Pete made a name for himself, various names, in fact, a lot of people deemed him as an asshole, yet some people still thought he was cool, but his reputation didn’t soar until Arma Angelus.

Their music was loud, scratchy, and all over the place. Pete loved it. It gave him the thrills he craved. He was unclean vocals, voice deafening, and the words filled with passion. He scrounged up a following, climbed his way up to the top of Chicago’s hardcore punk scene, and made his face recognizable.

Pete made himself into a visible fixture and swept the floor clean with it.

***

Pete was sixteen when he met Joe. Joe Trohman, their brief replacement for Chris, their bass guitarist for a short time until he became their full-fledged lead guitarist. Joe Trohman, a cool dude, who had a faint lisp, and smelled of weed. It was one of their first practices, their shoulders were stiff, both eyeballing each other until Joe cracked a grin at him, guitar laid flat against his hip.

“Hope you’re not as much of a dick as your reputation gives you credit for.”

Pete snorted, arms folding across his chest. “My reputation doesn’t do me justice. I’m much  _more_  of a dick than they give me credit for.”

They’re best buds after that, cutting band practice to hit up the nearest 7-Eleven and hoard snacks. Cheetos, Doritos, and gummy worms, galore. They gobbled down as many crisps and worms as they could muster until their stomachs gurgled with exertion.

They both went to the same high school. Joe picked him up occasionally with his shitty van and they raided the nearest Starbucks. They’d scamper late into school with cups of coffee swishing back and forth within their palms, while they chuckled under their breaths.

***

They were at Joe’s house when Joe brought it up, body sprawled out on rumpled sheets as The Smiths filled the empty silence. Pete’s crisscrossed on the floor, several CDs piled up on his lap as he sorted through them. Bacon, Joe’s dog, napping on the other side of the room, with soft snores seeping from his snout.

“Dude,” Joe started, head tilting towards him. Pete glanced up from the Metallica disc in his hands, his lips quirking into a grin. “Dude?”

Joe’s eyes are half-lidded, forehead wrinkled as he tried to make sense of his thoughts. “We should like, start a band.” Pete stared for an extended period of time, face screwed up in thought before a laugh trickled out of him.

“We’re like, kind of in a band, man.” Joe sat up at that, torso surging up in a frenzy. “No! Like, we should start – like, fuck. Our  _own_  thing.”

“You mean like  _secede_ from Arma?”

Joe cleared his throat, sitting up on his knees. “Let me sell you on this.” Pete straightened up, chin held up high in a challenging posture. “Explain yourself, Trohman.”

“Arma is sinking, man.” Pete’s entire upper body sagged at that, the blow of reality hitting him in the face. “Yeah,” he replied, nose scrunching up.

It’s not a lie, they’re fading fast. Fights have been breaking out, band members arguing over the direction, and lack of professionalism – primarily referring to Pete and Joe, which was a bit of a stretch. Joe ending up in the ER with a mouth full of blood wasn’t even their fault. Joe's guitar just so happened to shake hands with his face. It wasn't like Pete had meant to swing it in his direction. It was an accident. It was  _artistic_.

“Dude, just like imagine –  imagine what we could do.” Those words had Pete’s imagination reeling, pondering, and he could practically taste it. Dreams all fancy, locked up in fluffy white clouds hovering delicately over his head.

“Maybe,” he said, musing over the options. Joe’s wide grin was infectious and within seconds had Pete countering it with an amused smirk.

“You know how to play the bass, right?”

The corners to Pete’s mouth stretched, and they’re both looking at each other with bright eyes, foolish and pubescent, but it felt like a beginning. Pete knew this was the beginning to something big.

“We’re going to be fucking huge, man!” Pete hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth, and knocking over the discs in his lap. Joe hoots back, bouncing up and down on his bed, causing the springs to shriek in distress.

***

They began to plan, two steps ahead of the world, and four chords lined up. They kept it under wraps, their own personal secret they smiled to themselves about. While this idea was all that and a bag of chips – it wasn’t exactly foolproof. They needed, well, just about everything. They didn’t want a carbon copy of Arma Angelus. No, they wanted something different, something better. An escape from outright punk with a dash of pop.

Pete already had the apple to his eye picked for the drummer, ripe and juicy. However, the apple smacked him right upside the head, when Andy had shrugged him off, told him he was too busy, and ended it with a “Maybe another time, man,” like he hadn’t taken Pete seriously.

Band rejection was never sweet, sent Pete into a bitter spirit, and made him push his legs harder during soccer practice the next day. His thighs ached, sore, and prickly as he yanked his sweat-drenched T-shirt over his chest. A hand tugged on the back of his shorts, making him stumble, and he twisted around, irritated.

Joe was beaming at him, a proud gleam in his eye. Pete was curious, wondering whether his death was approaching or not.

“You kind of look like you just got blown –  _did_  you just get blown?”

Joe’s prideful expression is flushed down the toilet in ten seconds flat, surging from proud to feigned exasperation. “Baby, you know I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“That’s not what Ellie said. Or Jenny, for that matter. Even Rachel – “ Joe’s palm ended up crammed into Pete’s mouth, stifling his words, so Pete settled with waggling his brows back and forth suggestively.

“You don’t know me well enough to criticize my virtue.” Pete’s tongue slid up against the cracks of Joe’s palm, cruel and ruthless, making the younger squawk and jolt away in disgust, hand karate chopping through the air.

“Dude. What the  _fuck_ ,” it’s said more as a statement than a question.

“The tongue never fails,” Pete said, wiggling the muscle in Joe’s face until Joe took a crack at jabbing him in the stomach with his elbow. “Ow! Fuck, dude – you’ve got pointy ass bones.”

“Don’t talk about my ass like that – wait, no, I’m here for a reason,” Joe stopped, facial features molding back into delight. “Dude, I found us a drummer.”

Normally Pete would’ve been impressed, but most of the time these things were just too good to be true. He squinted at Joe, an uncertain mumble of noise leaving him. “Yeah?”

“I’m serious. Like he’s cool and I met him at Borders, right,” Pete nodded his head along to Joe, the excited rambling of his friend intriguing him.

“We talked music for a while, mainly Neurosis, but then he told me he played and he’s like, good.  _Really_  good, dude, and not just drumming.”

Pete kept his features tied into a poker face, lips slowly pursing. “Dunno. I mean, who even is this dude?” It’s purposely verbalized with indifference, his face unimpressed as he ogled at his chewed-up fingernails. Joe scowled at him, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull before he spoke with purpose.

“His name’s Patrick, Patrick Stump. He’s a short little dude, kind of pale, and – “ Joe’s words faded out and fell to the dirt of the field when he got a glimpse of Pete’s face. Pete’s eyes were pitch-black, opened wide with his mouth clenched shut and his cheeks splotched with a vicious shade of red.

“No fucking way,” was what Pete uttered, his voice feeble as he hissed out “Patrick Stump is bad news, Joe.” It was childish, he was aware of that, but it was a lot harder to just forgive and forget than what the PG-13 movies with a child-friendly message demonstrated.

“Dude,” Joe accused, his tone judging. Joe’s hands were up, palms facing Pete, like he was taming a baby deer. Pete hissed, batting them away with a growl. Joe took a swing and Pete followed until they both fell into an embarrassingly short wrestling match.

The tussle is settled with Joe’s right forearm wrapped around Pete’s windpipe and his left hand tangled within thick black strands.

“I’m not letting go until you agree to give Stump a chance.” Pete groaned and struggled, hips swiveling while trying to claw ferociously at Joe’s face with his fingernails.

“Damn it Joe, you don’t even know our history!” Pete huffed, chest heaving with exhaustion, and his bark growing weaker and weaker with every movement. “I’m tired of your wicked ways – now, what would your mama say?”

“She’d pat me on the head and buy me an ice cream, probably,” Joe shrugged.

“Lies. Everything you say is a lie,” Pete croaked, his body drooping as he breathed in heavily. Joe snorted at him, the muscles in his arms tightening. At that, Pete let out a moan of pain, the oomph in his fight faltering.

 “Are you giving up?”

“Shut the hell up, Trohman. I’ll falcon punch you to the moon,” Pete promised, jabbing his fingers towards the bone of Joe’s left hip. Pete was angled horribly, neck being squeezed tight and his fingers all clumsy, but he didn’t miss, no, it sailed straight into his pride.

“Give me one reason why it’s a good idea,” Pete demanded at last. While he wasn’t exactly in the position to apply force, he still tried.

It was what counted.

“Well, for starters, we need a drummer.” Pete’s facial expression hardened, glaring at the Coke can crunched up and leaking on the bench ten feet away from them.

 “Point.”

“Patrick’s also like some kind of genius – like a total mad scientist,” Joe continued, voice edging awe-territory. Pete wanted to hurl.

“You sound like a love-struck teenaged girl. I’m sorry Joe, but I won’t allow you to drop your knickers for the likes of Stump,” Pete grumbled and winced slightly when Joe’s nails skated over his clavicle and dug in just a bit too deep.

“Haha, very funny, asshole – but seriously,” Joe snapped, his grasp around Pete loosening, and –  _fuck_ , he did sound serious. They were both silent for all of three harrowing seconds before Joe freed Pete from his hold. Pete’s expression twisted, a frown playing on his lips as he spun around lazily. “Fuck.”

Joe simpered at him, aware of the fact that he’s reached victory, and Pete wanted to punch him, so he did. They both dodged one another, jumping from left to right, until Pete hopped back three steps, his nose held high in the air.

“This better be worth the fucking trouble, Joe.”

Joe jerked a shoulder at him, voice amused when he answered weakly with “Who knows? Maybe this is just what we need.”

Pete for whatever reason, doubted that.

***

Pete’s knees were jiggling, his cheeks puffed out, as the soles of his shoes dragged back and forth against cement. His wrist snapped forward, knuckles banging against the front door to Patrick’s house. With every second that passed, the screwing of his facial features escalated, jaw clenching closed, and his stomach filling with a special kind of anxious.

 The door swung open, shorts and black socks with an argyle sweater greeting Pete with a scowl, and the expression was requited.

“The famous Pete Wentz,” Patrick gritted out, the enamel of his teeth ground firmly against one another.

The dismay in Pete’s gut fled from him altogether, distress replaced with childhood resentment. He forced a laugh, his incisors glinting razor-sharp in the light and edging dangerous. His skeleton rumbled with teenaged recklessness and his chest puffed out, widening his stance.

“Try again Stump. The argyle hasn’t won me over just yet, but Patricia’s lemon squares might.”

They knew each other, it was a cruel revelation that knocked Pete down a peg, but he wasn’t going to let up easily. No, Patrick had to knock Pete’s socks off and he wasn’t allowed to use his fists.

“You gonna come in or what?”

Pete dawdled for a terse moment, eye’s locked onto Patrick’s hand as the blonde nudged the bridge of his lenses up with a frown. With an irked sigh, Pete pushed past Patrick and tugged off his shoes, flopping them down by the entrance.

“So, where do you keep the bat cave, band geek?” It was in the basement. Pete knew it was in the basement, yet he was far too proud to inflate Patrick’s ego with hot air. Patrick was already paddling away by the time Pete glanced his way, shorts swishing down steep stairs. Pete treaded wary steps behind him, floorboards creaking with every soft press of his toes.

“So, where’s Trohman?” Pete shrugged, eyeing the instruments strewn out within the vicinity, and he shoved down the bubble of respect expanding inside his gut when he noticed a Michael Jackson poster pinned up on the wall. “Do you actually know how to play all of these?”

“What? Yeah –  I mean, I play around with them every now and then,” Patrick mumbled, fingers playing with the skin of neck. Pete’s eyes are drawn to something shiny and his mouth is keener than his brain.

“Is that a God damn trumpet?”

The eye-roll Patrick put on display wasn’t at all discreet in the slightest. “Yes. That is, in fact, a God damn trumpet.” Kid had sass. Pete appreciated that.

“Look, I know how to play the drums. I’ve got enough rhythm to keep a steady beat. That’s what you guys need – want, right?”

Pete nodded his head. “We kind of need like, everything, but yeah.” Patrick snorted at that, but otherwise kept silent as he settled behind his set of drums.

“You familiar with Saves the day?”

Patrick was good, if not decent, and Pete put his adolescent grudge aside to contemplate on whether this was a good idea or not. It could work, he thought, but a hunch was eating at him, gnawing at his brain. A distraction that he couldn’t quite yet lay his finger on.

Patrick’s overlaid by a sheen of sweat by the time he’s finished, drum sticks clacking together in his hands. He chanced a peek at Pete, chin tilting downwards. It hit Pete when his pupils caught a clear view of Patrick’s mouth, bottom lip shiny and sparkling in the dull lighting of the basement.

“Have you ever done vocal work?” It was a notion produced within his gut, Pete’s brain on autopilot, and he nearly laughed when Patrick’s nose twitched, his face confused.

“I, uh, guess? I mean, I’m not a professional singer. It’s not something I really do.” Pete wasn’t convinced, humming airily as he perched his bottom upon the mangled sofa behind him. “Y’think you could humor me?”

Something in Patrick’s glare made Pete add a gentle “Trust me,” and the spark of ire left the boy’s irises. Patrick abandoned his drum sticks with a clatter to the ground, gaze glued to the floor until his mouth opened hesitantly. The words to In Between Love by Tom Waits rippling from his throat, voice silky smooth, and melodious.

Pete was quite certain by that point that he’d fallen in love with his childhood foe’s voice, unable to point out any flaws within the kid’s vocal range.

Patrick was fucking perfect.

Pete wasn’t angry about it, but he wasn’t happy either because now he had to coax Patrick into being their singer. It was crystal clear that that wasn’t going to be an easy task from the way the kid’s cheeks were flushed pink, forehead dribbling with even more sweat than prior.

They both gave each other drawn-out stares, scrutinizing one another until Patrick cleared his throat. “Alright, man. Enough with the clowning around. You need a drummer?”

“We need a singer, too,” Pete replied, hips veering to the side as he reclined himself into a cozier position on the couch.

“I dig your voice, man.” The words that left his lips were a lot more manageable to say than Pete had originally presumed them to be. Patrick’s eyes were heavy on Pete’s skin, the poor kid’s brain undoubtedly overworking itself. “I’m not a singer,  _man_.”

“You could be,” Pete suggested, eyelids flitting until they gradually drifted shut. “You’re exactly what we’re looking for.” Pete swallowed down the jubilation coursing through his veins and turned his expression to stone. This was like a golden ticket for him, he couldn’t risk scaring this opportunity away.

“I don’t think my voice is really built for that – screaming, I mean. That’s more your forte.”

Pete snorted, sitting up. “That’s not what we’re going for, dude. You know Green Day or The Get Up Kids?” Patrick shook his head yes, signaling Pete to continue. “That’s what this is – what we wanna be. Or like what we’re influenced by.”

Patrick’s face twisted, mulling it over until he said “That’s cool. I – okay.”

Pete wasn’t a baby, he could set aside his differences if it meant being one step closer to having the puzzle pieces sealed up neat and secure. While it was unfortunate that Patrick Stump had to be one of them, he’d deal with it, but in the meantime, he felt giddy. Hell, he was practically on cloud nine now that their plan was beginning to come together. His brain felt foggy, fuzzy in elation, loopy, and drunk with content. He even managed a smile at Patrick. A genuine one this time.

“Sweet.”


	2. Chapter 2

Joe adjusted to the news effortlessly when Pete had informed him that, no, they did not have a drummer, but they did, however, have a singer. “Cool,” Joe had shrugged, his lips curved into lazy smile. “One more slot filled.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Pete and Patrick banded together after that, settling their hatchets on the back burner for another day. Although, they still argued every now and then. Their personalities clashed brutally together, squabbles got started over lint with Joe present to break them apart when the scene got caught on fire. Sometimes it was a struggle, using Patrick’s basement as a head base with the blonde ordering them around like servants.

“Do you ever take that stick out of your ass or does it just, like, remain there?” Patrick had punched him for that, but it was worth it when Pete heard Joe’s stifled cackling from the other side of the room. Besides, Patrick’s mom made delicious sandwiches for them occasionally.

“They’re called finger sandwiches Pete,” Patricia corrected him, but Pete didn’t care. He’d already eaten six of them by that point.

“I think I love you,” Pete said, completely serious, but she only patted him on the head with a faint chuckle and padded back into the kitchen. The teen was already planning on how to court her with a boombox and an open window when Patrick nailed him hard in the shin, the asshole.

“Do you ever chill? Seriously, you give me crazy ex-girlfriend vibes.” Pete got hit again for that, but Joe flashed him a thumbs-up when he fled down the stairs, so Pete still came out on top.

“You give me sad and lonely ex-boyfriend vibes, so we’re even.” That one stung a bit, landing right on the bullseye, but Pete shoved down his will to fight and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

It was fine, they got along fine, still fought, but not fighting was impossible. “We’re a band, alright. We gotta love each other,” Joe had claimed, sat in-between them on the sofa while patting both of their heads fondly.

“We’re three dudes in a basement with a trumpet,” was Patrick’s reply and Pete snorted. “I wonder how far we’ll soar with that brass.”

“Far enough,” Patrick muttered. The words made Pete’s stomach do jumping-jacks. He held back a smile, but knocked his knee into Patrick’s when he stood to scoop up his bass. Patrick eyed him oddly for a moment, yet didn’t say anything.

***

Pete and Joe were on a mission, both strapped in tight by the torn seat belts in the van, instruments clinking in the back, and they drove up to the double doors within the school parking lot, ready. Patrick’s by the entrance way, dressed in a hoodie, with some dark denim jeans, and chatting with his friends. Pete’s smile transitioned into something sinister by the time he was rolling down the glass, and howling out the window.

“Hey nerd!” The bounce in Patrick’s step made Pete crow a laugh, his voice scratchy as he went on. “Get in loser! We’re getting coffee.”

There was an irritated sigh, Patrick’s friends gawking at Pete from the entrance until the blonde hissed a marginally polite goodbye and stomped his way over to the car. Soft murmurs of Pete’s name flowed throughout the lot and Pete’s face turned smug as he flaunted his great pearly whites.

“You two suck,” it’s said with very little vigor as Patrick slid open the side door and threw himself in before slamming it shut. Joe dialed up the volume to the radio and drove off, hips gyrating to the worst top forties.

“I only swallow,” was Pete’s ingenious rebuttal, and when he caught a whiff of the glare reflected back at him from the rearview mirror, the world felt right.

"Dude, junk the sweats. It's hotter than Satan’s ball sack up in here,” Pete told Patrick a few seconds later, provoking a confused frown. "Van runs slow as shit, so we’ve gotta put the A/C on high," Pete explained further, scowling at Joe.

“Shut up, asshole. This van’s a gem,” Joe said, honking the horn with a whoop. The beep made the car in the next lane over flip them the bird and Pete decided to serve it back with interest.

“What's her name again? Crystal? Named after that blonde cheerleader who turned your skin inside out like a glove?” Joe glanced at Pete, a smile in his eyes while Patrick, who was sat in the back, looked thoroughly bewildered.

“She was my treasure, my sweet cherry pie,” Joe breathed, voice clouded with pseudo-tears. Pete forced his facial expression into something sterner, his fingers curled around his chin skeptically.

“She kneed you in the dick and left you for the quarterback.”

Joe waved him off, throwing in a coy wink. “Details, Wentz, details.”

Patrick peered up between them, eyes zigzagging back and forth until they squinted in annoyance and he opened his mouth. “Was there an actual reason for this? Or are you assholes just going to talk short skirts and pompoms for the rest of this joyous car ride?”

Joe made the whirring noise of an angry cat, flexing his fingers into claws while Pete dangled himself from the side of his chair, seatbelt strap deserted behind him.

“Sometimes bands need to bond. Sadly, this is not one of those times.”

“So why – “

“Zip your mouth Stump, I’m getting to that,” Pete interrupted, shushing Patrick with a hand, who gave off a miffed scowl.

“So, you familiar with Zoe, the girl with the – “ Pete paused to gesture wildly to his face with his eyelids tugged downwards to appear more intense. Patrick nodded, answering him with “Yeah, she’s kind of hard to miss.”

“Yeah, so she’s throwing a party in a few weeks and she was talking about how she needed a live band,” Pete said, gazing at Patrick with wide browns, striving to manipulate the singer with his fashionable puppy-dog stare. It did, however, not work.

Patrick’s face went from irritated to fascinated with horror in a split second. “We only have one guitarist and zero fucking drummer – we haven’t even finished writing one song yet!”

“We don’t have a name either,” Joe joined in, to which Pete kicked him hard in the thigh before glancing back at Patrick, nearly cringing at the green in the blonde’s nauseated expression.

“We’ll just do bad nineties covers,” Pete proposed, jerking one of his shoulders sheepishly. His lips twitched helplessly into a grin when Patrick gaped at him, eyebrows knitted together.

“I refuse to – stop fucking laughing, you dick,” Patrick demanded before he went in for the kill. He was ready to strike with his hands balled into fists, his knuckles sharp. Their wrestling match was short-lived, however. Pete’s fingers swiftly circled around Patrick’s wrists and the brawl was put on pause with laughter trickling from the bassist.

“It’s cool, man! I know a guy who’ll drum. His name’s Mike.” Joe made an offhand noise, pupils settled on the road as he flapped a hand in the Pete’s direction. “There’s this dude T.J. too, who’ll strum for us.”

Patrick didn’t look relieved by this. His cheeks still rosy as he fell back from the tussle, fingernails dug deep into the tattered seat of the van while he grimaced. “A few weeks, you said? Fuck. We’re gonna need practice.”

“We’re awesome,” Pete said, and it was mostly true.

***

Patrick was fierce, intense, and a complete perfectionist. It was the first thing Pete thought, pondering over his vocalist, his band. Patrick was difficult, challenging, but he got things done, and he did them well. Pete felt weird thinking about it, his gut clenching and fluttering while it gnawed at his brain, but he squashed it down to pre-show jitters.

Everything was flawless until T.J. made the decision to tank on them last minute, cashing in a raincheck, and shrugging his shoulders over the phone in a “Whatyda gonna do,” sort of way.

Once that came crashing down, Patrick’s bitch-fit was incoming, his words sharp and curt during their Wednesday practice, almost as if he were on the verge of combustion. It was only when Joe opened his mouth, prompting Patrick to play instead, that the tension in their spines released.

Mike was a cool dude, a bit flakey, but Pete was aware of that. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he supposed. Patrick wasn’t as laid-back about it as Pete or Joe. No, when Mike was late or missed one of their practices, he erupted like a volcano, spewing lava and ash.

“God fucking damn it. Seriously? The party’s in what? Two days? I don’t have the patience for this shit. Pete – Pete why the hell are you laughing? This is  _serious_.” Pete’s legs are splayed open on the floor, fuzzy blanket spread over his torso as he grinned leisurely up at Patrick.

“Dude, it’s just a house party. There’ll only be like twenty kids, tops,” Joe said, words obscured through a mouthful of Doritos.

“Yeah twenty kids who’ll ridicule us until we graduate,” Patrick huffed,  _which_ , dude had a point.

“Alright, chill man. Most of the kids are probably going to be shit-faced anyway. It’s not a  _huge_  deal.” The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound being the obnoxious crunching of Joe’s molars.

“I know,” Patrick finally replied after a couple of seconds, words soft, the shimmer in his eyes naive. “I just want it to be good.” Pete’s heart pulsed uncomfortably at that, the ribs in his chest suddenly a tad bit too snug around his lungs, and he was silent until he wasn’t.

“We will be.”

Pete didn’t know what made him say it, what encouraged such sincerity, but it leaked from him. Liquid admiration oozed from his mouth, choking back whatever distaste he had originally held, and it scared him.

Patrick observed him, mouth slanted open, like he wanted to protest, but his eyes advertised a sense of relief. Pete felt satisfied by the sight.

“Whatever, Wentz,” it’s said with a lot more warmth than what Pete thought he deserved.

“Now get off your ass and pick up the bass.”

There it was.

***

It wasn’t, well, it wasn’t great. Pete could admit, it was kind of bad, but not legendary bad – the worst kind of bad.

Patrick had had his back to the crowd, eyes widened in terror with his mouth clenched into something sickly. His hand was clutched into a death-grip over the microphone, guitar hung loose over his hips. Joe was tucked up on the left, body cramped awkwardly into a corner, while Mike’s rhythm kept straying away from the actual song.

Their sound wasn’t totally polished, the lack of practice glistening through their shaky fingers and nervous glances, but it wasn’t terrible enough to make ears bleed or glass break either. A few people catcalled at them, some Pete knew, and some he didn’t. So, to give forth, Pete stood up on a chair, jeering loudly enough to distract the fair number of teenagers from considering mutiny.

“Alright! Everybody get up off your feet!” There were a few groans here and there, some slander from the back, but Pete only let it fuel him, a sleazy grin on his face.

“We don’t give a shit if you think we suck. We’re gonna make you deaf!” It’s said in jest, mostly, but a couple of people quip back with “Oh yeah?” Most sarcastic, but a few intrigued, so Pete soared with it.

“Fuck yeah!”

It wasn’t a makeshift, didn’t erase the shit, but brought forth confidence, and they were smiling by the end of it, their bloodstreams pumped full of adrenaline. Afterwards, they were paid in pizza and Coca-Cola that made their bellies bubble with satisfaction and a teensy bit of indigestion.

They were packing up their equipment into Joe’s van when Patrick nudged a shoulder into one of Pete’s ribs, throwing him half a grin that told Pete he was pleased. Contrary to this however, Patrick’s words said the complete opposite. “That sucked total ass.”

“Yeah, yeah it really did,” Pete agreed, his head nodding along to Patrick, who raised a dubious brow at him. Pete swayed a bit, his resolve crumbling to dust before he threw an arm over Patrick’s shoulders, making the other boy stumble.

“We’ve got plenty potential though, so don’t go throwing in the towel just yet, Pattycakes.” The nickname catered for bad feedback. Patrick scored a swipe at Pete, aiming for his head, but Pete successfully dodged it, smile stupidly wide as he bounced back on one foot.

“You think far too little of me. I don’t give up that easily,” is what Patrick told him, amused, and Pete believed it.

“You’d be surprised at just how much I think, Trick,” Pete said, his words with an extra bite to them, carefree and not really thought through. It was only when Patrick peered at him a bit perplexed, that Pete realized it sounded a whole lot more like a come-on than just some simple and innocent banter.

It was left behind and forgotten in the waste basket of Pete’s brain when Joe crashed into them, guitar cradled in his arms, and his mouth stained with tomato sauce. “C’mon, boys, we’ve got a check to cash!”

“Doughy carbs covered in melted cheese with fizzy drinks, the best kind of payment.”

The night was concluded with a food-off, trying to see who could inhale the most Italian cuisine. Pete managed at least seven slices of pizza that evening in the back of Joe’s van before he passed out, drool dribbling from his mouth and onto Patrick’s denim-clothed shoulder.

It was the absolute best.

***

They’re a little more popular on the playground after that, introduced as the unknown, and they’re perfectly anonymous. They’re mostly on the downlow, except for Pete, who’s known notoriously for his loud mouth and tight jeans, which Patrick poked fun at him for occasionally.

“I fear one day you’ll faint due to low oxygen levels. Seriously.” It was said in an earnest whisper, but the crinkle of Patrick’s eyes gave him away. The gag didn’t stop Pete from trying to flick him in the ear, though. Patrick gave off a stifled snort, barely avoiding Pete’s fingers when his head ducked towards his desk before he grabbed at his anatomy text book and tried to beat Pete over the head with it. Their scuffle was put to rest by two detention slips. The evidence of their crimes being the spitballs glued to their desks.

It was only the next morning, Pete stood by his locker, rocking his head back and forth to the Ramones on his iPod when the back of a hand tagged his shoulder. Pete startled, whirling around only to catch sight of the back of a baseball cap, a great deal of denim, and dimpled cheeks.

Pete’s eyes bore into the back of Stump’s jacket, scrutinizing it until it turned corners. It was only a moment later when Pete thought to himself that maybe, just  _maybe_  Patrick Stump had no relation to the word misfortune after all.

***

They played at a good amount of parties as their junior year flew by, gaining more momentum within the streets of Wilmette, Illinois. Their name got worked out by the time their second show rolled around.

Pete bumped it down to bad judgement when they grouped together with a list of names and compelled the crowd of teens listening in to participate within the choosing. They mulled it over, people yapping out random words from different directions within the masses until a random guy’s voice pierced through the group, drunk off his ass as he slurred out “Fuck that, no, you're Fall Out Boy!”

People hollered, flocking together and reciting it until Pete bellowed back, raising his arms towards the ceiling.

They signed off with that, their decision made.

“So…we’re Fall Out Boy, huh,” Pete hummed, a French fry poking out from between his lips as they sat, huddled within a booth at a nearby fast food joint.

“Guess so,” Patrick shrugged, his nose wrinkling in disgust when Mike dipped a chicken nugget into barbecue sauce.  

“Huh,” Pete repeated slowly, eyeing Joe with a raised brow as the curly-headed boy squared off with a burger the size of his head.

“Yep,” Patrick nodded, giving off an impish grin before he snatched at a handful of Pete’s fries. Pete in response, countered this by pouring the rest of Mike’s barbecue sauce all over his fries, much to their drummer’s dismay.

“That’s fucking gross,” Patrick commented with Mike shaking his head in agreement. “Dude.”

Pete being Pete answered this with shoving a bulk of soggy French fries into his mouth and munching nosily with his lips gaped wide open.

Patrick to Pete’s delight, grimaced in disgust. Moments later, the blonde’s hands reached over the table and slid around Pete’s jaw, pushing his teeth together.

A chuckle rumbled from Pete’s chest, his fingers closing around the blonde’s knuckles in a weak attempt to yank the appendages away. Pete’s eyes were half-lidded, gazing at Patrick when it hit him, the warmth of soft fingertips against his skin, and the urge to retreat swept through him. It was almost violent, the way Pete jerked back, cheeks flushing pink in embarrassment, and him clueless as to why.

“Shit – did I hurt you?” The concern in Patrick’s voice only served to worsen the cramping of Pete’s stomach. His lips clenched down into a deep frown and his bottom scooted out of the booth in haste to flee.

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Pete in bewilderment as he stood up on two wobbly feet, hands braced against the table. So, to mollify the confusion, Pete cleared his throat and stamped on a shaky grin, forcing out a feeble laugh as he said “No, man – think the grease is disagreeing with me, though.”

“Are you – “

“I’m fine,” Pete interrupted, stomping the heel of his foot down upon the words of concern that began to spill from the blonde’s mouth. “No big deal, but I’m gonna hit the stalls, so…” His voice drawled slowly into a hiss before he was hauling ass down tile towards the restroom.

The door was swung open furiously with Pete hurdling through. Pete’s shoulder blades whetted against wood, his back pressing the door shut while harsh breaths left him. His heart was beating erratically, stomach still fluttering while his throat closed up due to the shame coiling in his gut and he had no idea why. A few minutes went by while Pete collected himself, shoving down his sudden outburst, and blaming cheap fast food for the pain in his belly.

The same throb swept through Pete the next morning in the middle of the school’s corridor when Patrick smiled at him from across the hall and waved a brief hello.

Pete blamed it on the fast food.

***

Summer was coming up, his junior year was ending, and it made Pete shiver with excitement. He had been thinking, pondering over a specific thought that just kept worming its way back into his mind, wiggling, and burying itself right into the center of his brain.

It was Friday night, the mood was right, and they had practice. Pete, of course, flied down the stairs at the speed of light, nearly busting down the door with his enthusiasm.

Joe on the other side of the room, phone in one hand and a sandwich in the other hadn’t looked up, but muttered “Try not to break anything, Pete – and I don’t mean your bones.”

“Summer, bitches!” Was the first thing Pete hollered out, his knees jiggling with vigor. “Van-fucking-tour!” Joe stared at him, Mike stared at him, and Patrick didn’t even move, eyes still locked onto his notebook. Pete stared back, face wrinkled up in offense due to his genius not being recognized.

“Don’t you have soccer,” was Patrick’s response, nose still shoved up against lined paper with lyrics scrawled out upon them, and his expression disinterested – the tiny fucker.

“I’d rather share sweat with you,” Pete said, the corners to his lips lifting shakily as he tried to cover up his laugh with a cough. Patrick gaze snapped to him in a flash, Pete almost felt dizzy. Patrick’s expression displayed shock, almost as if Pete had punched him in the face.

“Uh.” Lovely, Pete thought to himself. Holding back the eyeroll, he pressed his hands together, fingers coiling. “C’mon, it’ll be rad. I mean, how can you expect us to get big if we only play at local parties and college cafeterias every now and then?”

“Uh,” Patrick echoed, and Pete legitimately considered punching him until Joe interrupted with an “I’m down,” and Pete mentally high-fived him for that, but kept his physical body in place as Patrick’s eyes widened, mouth agape.

“Wait, whoa – what about our parents?” Pete actually rolled his eyes this time, chest heaving out an annoyed sigh.“Details, schmetails.” The hissing growl rumbling in Patrick’s chest sent Pete’s stomach into knots, his lungs seizing up from the pressure in his throat.

“Hey,” Mike said, stepping in without much thought. “I’ll have to ask my parents, but it might be cool.”

“So, we’re all in agreement,” Pete nodded his head, a big toothy grin widening his cheeks. Patrick choked, sputtering with his face flamed fiery red. “We are not all in agreement!”

“Cool, okay, so – “

“Pete, I swear to god,” and before Pete realized it, blood was pumping heavily against his eardrums, heat flooding into his groin and he was hard. His dick painfully pressed up against the zipper of his pants, making his hips squirm slightly. With a fragile sense of dignity and a tight-lipped smile, Pete uttered “C’mon, Trick. Give it a chance.”

Patrick’s eyes lingered on Pete for what felt like an eternity, pupils shifting back and forth over his face. Pete felt a slight tremor dance through his body before Patrick gave in, huffing a pissed off breath of air. “Fine, but no fucking in the van and our parents have to be on board, seriously.”

A rush of joy spread throughout Pete’s body and he lifted three fingers up. “Scouts honor.” Patrick rolled his eyes with a soft noise before shooting him a fond look. “You weren’t a god damn scout, fucker.”

Pete’s hard-on was forgotten, thankfully hidden from his asphyxiating jeans, but the content purr within his chest stayed.

Joe only somewhat ruined the moment by butting in with “Oh, and none of that emo shit screaming about tragic love and forbidden romance on my radio. Seriously Pete, I’ll kill you dead.”

“You bite your tongue, heathen.”

***

It was later that same evening, Pete was sprawled out on the knotted rug with a suspicious purple stain on it. Joe was passed out on the recliner next to the stairs, face being smothered by a throw pillow with his right-hand tossed over the side, twitching in the air. It was a rare occasion, but sometimes they stayed over and cuddled it up with Patrick’s furniture.

It was close to midnight, Pete wasn’t asleep, his body too busy humming with the residue of his earlier adrenaline rush. Pete was still mulling restlessly over it, how they’d convince their folks, shows they’d play, where they’d drive – hell, he’d drive anywhere. As long as he got to play, even if they paid him in pizza, which didn’t sound too terrible, actually.

“I can hear you thinking,” mumbled a gruff voice, laced with exhaustion. Pete’s shoulders jumped, his eyes blinking open before the light casted from the television caused him to squint. “Hurh?” A soft chuckle tore through Pete’s bloodstream, making him grin lazily.

Patrick.

“Can’t sleep. Too much excitement.” Patrick’s second laugh was louder, deeper, the edges of his voice crackling from the dry air. It only made Pete’s grin widen. “You’re telling me. I can feel your toes smacking into the side of the couch, Pete.”

“Oops,” Pete said, but he wasn’t all that sorry. Patrick made a vague grunt in reply.

It was silent after that, the only sound being the faint snores resounding from Joe’s flopped out form. Pete wriggled in discomfort, the silence was too loud, so he decided to fill it.

"We'll be like Green Day on ice," Pete declared in a hissing whisper, one fist pumped up towards the ceiling of Patrick’s basement. Patrick, snuggled beneath a cocoon of blankets, glanced down at him, his facial features unimpressed.

"Please, for the love of god, don't describe it like that."

“Don’t be such a grouch, Patty,” Pete said, vibrating with content against the scratchy floor, a stiff quilt bundled tight and cozy around him. It was a few minutes later when Pete cleared his throat and opened his mouth again.

“Hey, quick question, so do you own an actual bed? Why are you using the couch as your camp site?” The words were more of an excuse to chat, his ears weren’t quite ready for the former silence to resurface.

“Mm…Don’t wanna go up the stairs right’ow,” Patrick slurred, voice muffled into the plush cushioning of the sofa. “Get some sleep, kay? Worry ‘bout you enough.”

A low gurgle left Pete’s throat, Patrick’s words choking it right out of him. His heart felt like it was going to burst out from within his chest, every thump against his ribcage feeling like the tick to a bomb counting down, but he had no clue what the explosion would cause. His skin tingled, lungs tightening, and he felt anxious.

Pete didn’t catch of a wink of sleep that night.


	3. Chapter 3

Scrounging up money was probably their first concern, y’know, besides begging their parents for permission, which Pete didn’t see himself having trouble with. Money wasn’t too bad of an issue considering they’d been saving up whatever change they’d gotten from random gigs as a sort of a backup if any of their equipment went to shit. It was support in the form of crumpled dollars and jingly quarters stacked clumsily within a hollow mayo jar, kept in-between the cushions of the couch in Patrick’s basement.

On the parent side of things, Pete had slowly been treading his way up the kid of the month standing, his rank raising ever so slightly as the days passed. Pete had been washing the dishes every night, walking the dog in the morning when he could manage it and he even washed his dad’s car – well, he tried to at least.

It started off well, a bucket of water, suds, and a sponge. Pete had the hose as an adieu for the ultimate onceover at the end. He had thought it was good idea until Patrick, the asshole, snuck up on him and sprayed his ass with the damn hose. Pete, of course, countered this with pouring the bucket of suds onto the other boy as payback. The battle of water was concluded with them wrestling in the yard, slick skin upon slick skin, sliding, and their chests heaving with the exertion.

“You’re such a dick,” Pete had ground out, laughing wildly afterwards with tufts of grass caressing his spine. Speaking of dicks, his had gotten stiff, but that was to be expected. He was sixteen, after all. It’s up, it’s down, it’s up for no reason. Patrick had only directed a grin at him, his lips quirked up before he tickled Pete mercilessly. Unfortunately, Pete’s throat ended up hoarse from all the giggles that were forced from within it.

Lately Pete’s parents had been looking at him weird, their gazes calculating, expecting, and accepting. It was a few nights later when he was sat at the table, a slab of garlic bread stuffed into his mouth, making him resemble a chipmunk storing nuts when he decided to pop the question.

“So, mom and dad,” Pete started off with, taking a sip of fizz before clearing his throat when his parents eyed with curious stares. “Summer’s coming up and my friends and I want to do something…the money’s covered and – “

“What is this thing, Peter?” His mother questioned, her lips pursed while his dad’s expression had remained unchanged, not surprised in the least, which made Pete grin. “It’s uh, like a road trip – tour – a grand adventure!” It was only moments later when he thought to add “Patrick’s coming, too.”

Pete’s mother’s shoulders perked up at that, her lips curving into a wide smile. “Oh? So, you two are getting along now?” The muffled chuckle his father gave made Pete hold back a snort. Pete’s mom had always been soft on Patrick.

“Yeah, I think we’re actually friends now. Kind of.” Pete was pretty sure.

“That’s great, hon! Wait, just how long will this trip be and where are you going?” Rats. “Uh, it’s a few weeks…the details are a bit foggy, but we won’t be going  _too_  far,” Pete said, fingers crossed behind his back while he managed to keep a vacant expression on his face.

Pete’s parent’s eyes wavered over him, his father’s balanced breath intake made his heart thrum erratically. “I’ll call you every night,” he added, his teeth chewing onto his bottom lip. “Please,  _please_  let me go. It’s really important to me.”

There was a notch within the center of his mother’s brow, her nose wrinkled in thought. “What about soccer, Pete?” Shit, shit, shit.

“There’s always the fall,” Pete smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll pick it back up then.” His parents glanced at one another, both sighing until his father added, “We’ll have to think on it.” It’s as good as a yes in Pete’s book, so he excused himself and made a discreet pump of his fist as he bounced up the stairs to his bedroom.

Pete pawed his phone off his bedside drawer, fingers drumming over the keys before he put it up to his ear, humming along to the phone as it crooned into his ear. A click sounded and the first thing Pete heard was “Pete I’m not sneaking out with you again to sit in an empty parking lot at three in the morning and eat M&Ms.”

“Fuck you, Stump, that night was a masterpiece.” Patrick made an agitated groan, voice scratchy as he hissed out “We got chased by a cop for trespassing and breaking curfew.”

“Yeah,” Pete said placidly, nodding his head. “But did we get caught?” The other line was silent for a moment, puffs of air were huffed into the phone when Pete began to titter.

“No, no we didn’t, but does that mean we do it again? I think not.”

Pete’s lips formed into a pout, a gentle coo leaving his throat. “You’re such a killjoy, Trick. What’s fun about life if we can’t raise a little hell?”

“You seem to raise a lot more than just hell, Pete.” Pete snorted a laugh into the phone, plopping his bottom down upon his bed. “There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere. Just let me find it.”

“I’d rather not, to be honest,” Patrick said, his voice was dry and Pete could imagine his deadpanned expression. Giggling to himself, Pete hummed again.

“So, why’d you call?”

“To jerk off, baby. That pretty little voice of yours makes me hot.” To add emphasis, Pete let out a breathy moan, settling his phone up close and personal next to his crotch as he tugged down the zipper to his pants. A shrill squeak resonated from his phone, vibrating against his thigh.

“What the fuck, Pete?!”

“Killjoy,” Pete warbled into the speaker, his feet dancing against his blanket while his toes soothed out the wrinkles within the sheets. “Called you cause my parents gave me permission to go – or they’re thinking about it.”

“You dick,” Patrick began before he added a soft “Thinking about it, huh?”

“Yep,  _thinking_  about it,” Pete repeated, the words leaving him with an extra oomph.

“Guess we’ll see how well that goes.”

“You’re really gonna need to pull that stick out sooner or later before it affects your health.” Approximately two seconds later, Patrick hung up on him with a lax grunt. Pete, booing to himself, redialed Patrick’s number with a simper. Unsurprisingly, Patrick picked up the phone. They shot the shit until Pete’s eyelids began to shutter close and the picture of his bedroom fled his sight.

Pete’s dreams were filled with pretty plush lips. Obscene pink slithering down his body, pressing kisses to his most vulnerable of crevices. He woke up woozy with the front of his boxers wet, his lower belly stained with warm come. His mind drew a blank while his phone rung obnoxiously into his ear.

Huh.

***

It was Saturday, a few weeks later, and Pete was in his kitchen when the clock stuck noon as he buttered up a slice of bread with peanut butter. His hips wiggled to the radio blaring behind him as he glanced around the counters for the grape jelly. The butter knife in his hand fell to the floor with loud clatter when a series of knocks to the front door startled him. Throwing the knife into the sink, he wiped his hands on the front of his pajama pants. A groan left him when barking began to fill his ears. “God damn it, Pandora.”

Pete trudged to the door, sock sheltered feet slippery on polished wood as he swung open to door to see a frazzled Patrick Stump stood shakily on wobbly knees upon his porch. “Patrick?”

Patrick’s gaze held steady on him for a few seconds, burning holes into his flesh before the blonde rubbed at his neck and a puff of air left him. “We’re fucked, man.”

Pete’s head tilted, a bemused frown on his face. “Could you elaborate? That’s a little too vague, even for me.”

“Mike got caught smoking weed behind the school and his parents found out,” Patrick said, his face twisted into a scowl. “He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.” The oxygen in Pete’s lungs left him all at once, his features frozen in shock.

“You cannot be serious,” Pete chuckled nervously, his voice cracking from the strain. The jowls in Patrick’s jaw twitched at the noise.

“I’m serious, man.”

“Fuck,” Pete cursed, pressing a clammy palm to his forehead. “Just our fucking luck.” They stood in silence for a couple of seconds, their eyes cinched onto the ground beneath their toes. Pete inhaled a ragged breath before looking up at Patrick.

“So, it’s just…over? We’re out a drummer now?” Patrick nodded stiffly, his hands were cramped snug into the pockets of his denim, the material bunched up between his fingers.

Pete swallowed thickly as his forehead began to pulse in pain. Man, he could definitely go for more than one sandwich right now. With a jerk of his elbow towards the kitchen, Pete asked “So, you coming in? I’ve got peanut butter and jelly if you hunger.”

“If you’ve got a spoon and a jar, I’m all yours,” Patrick nodded, body flimsy as he stepped over the threshold before kicking his sneakers off and onto to the floor with a thud. Pete’s tongue clucked against the roof of his mouth, tutting in distaste. “You know that’s dangerous – choking hazard and all.”

Patrick shrugged, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “Luxury built on sacrifice. In other words, it’s my comfort food,” he answered before he paused, face screwed up in thought. “Smooth or crunchy?”

“You best believe I only use crunchy on my bread.” A quiet chirp slid from Patrick’s tongue, the left corner of his mouth hooked upwards. “I like a little crunch in my bite.”

Moments later, they’re both sat at the kitchen table. Pete’s squatted in a crisscrossed fashion, socks dug deep into the pad of his chair with his mouth full of PB&J. A groan of delight escaped him, the delicious flavor of peanut butter and jelly glazing his tongue. Patrick, perched across from him, chuckled around a spoon.

“I gave you that spoon and I can take it away,” Pete threatened, voice subdued by fluffy carbs. Patrick rolled his eyes in reprisal before blowing hot air from his nostrils. His eyelids blinked once, twice, until they surfaced on Pete. Pete never knew how electrified the shade of baby blue could be and the intensity of it made his body tremble.

“What are we going to do? Shit, man, we’ve been planning this for over a month and…I just…fuck.” Pete surveyed his half-eaten sandwich for a good stretch of time, triangles of sponge leering back at him as he shrugged his shoulders.

Mike was never…a perfect fit. It wasn’t that he was an asshole or he skipped out on their practices a lot, but there was just something about him that didn’t click with the rest of them. The chemistry was off. They weren’t really a team, just four guys arguing over the sounds of their own brains. It had gotten tiresome.

“Does Joe know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick nodded, scooping another spoonful from the jar. “Texted me and told me to tell you.”

“It’s not really  _that_  horrible,” Pete said, voicing his earlier thoughts while chewing on another mouthful of bread thoughtfully. Patrick looked at him with a crooked brow in question. “I mean, you guys argued throughout every practice from start to finish.”

Patrick squinted, licking a glob of peanut butter from the tip of his thumb before he ducked his head. The flash of sleek pink made Pete’s brain feel fuzzy, his pupils expanding before he carefully shook his head, rattling his suddenly disturbed thoughts aside.

“Yeah, but still. He wasn’t bad at following. It, well, it worked.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more than one drummer in Chicago, Patrick,” Pete murmured against the back of his hand in a low voice before his eyes widened and his body jerked, chair tumbling back and forth until he planted his feet solid onto the tile beneath him.

“Holy fuck, I have to make a phone call.”

***

It was so obvious. Crystal-fucking-clear that Pete should’ve rung up Andy, so he did. He had Andy on speed-dial, number saved from their past performances of when he filled in as a bassist for Racetraitor. Andy and Pete knew each other, chatted every now and then, but never kept tabs on one another. Pete wasn’t necessarily the fanboy type, but he knew Andy was well-known, hell, the guy legendary.

Patrick was gazing at him, a glint of curiosity gleaming in his eyes, but Pete only smirked at him and made a zipping motion over his lips with his fingers.

A few seconds passed over Pete, his phone buzzing against his cheek while he waited with bated breath and his knees jiggling below the table. A deafening click followed moments shortly before an airy voice reverberated against Pete’s eardrums.

“Wentz, the wonder boy. What’d ya need, kiddo?”

“Hurley, the man with the plan. So, how ya doing?” It’s blurted out more than said, Pete’s speech more boyish than he preferred with his budding youth leaking through the cracks. His jaw stiffened, teeth clenching together uncomfortably while he hoped Andy didn’t take notice of the bypass. However, he was aware of the fact that this was Andy he was dealing with.

“I’ve been doing fine,” it was said genuinely, voice still carrying that familiar edge of jubilance. With Pete’s jitters now alleviated, he allowed himself a breath of relief, which he choked on when Andy continued with “Now let’s skip the chitchat and you’ll tell me what you actually want.”

“Why can’t I call you out of pure adoration? True love, Andy! Don’t you still believe?” Patrick mouth twitched at that, his features contorting from remote to bemusement within half a second. A laugh rumbled over Pete’s cheek. It was brief, light, but also sweet enough to make a basket of hope bloom within Pete’s chest.

“Haven’t believed in them fairytales since I was just a wee slab of fresh meat in Junior high,” Andy said, the scraps of his past chuckle oozing out. “Now, c’mon Pete. You can’t juke your way outta this with cheap wit.”

“Now, Andy, my wit is a well-dressed classy broad and she will not allow such disrespect to her intelligence,” Pete said, words scolding while a grin took up half of his face. “I might need an itty bitty little favor from you.”

“Oh god,” Andy replied, sighing into the speaker until he added a whist “Yeah?”

“Remember that proposal I gave you…a while ago?” Andy made a grunt, resembling an abrupt “Uh huh.” Pete cleared his throat, ready for his pitch. “Well, we’ve run into a bit of a wall and we need your help.”

 “For fuck’s sake, Pete, get to the point.”

“We need a drummer,” Pete said at last, his body deflating with each word that spilled from his mouth. “Part-time for this little tour this summer we’ve been planning.”

Andy made a sound of acknowledgment over the line. “Kind of busy, Pete – thought you had a drummer?”

“Shit happens, I guess,” Pete answered, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s just, we’re a little out of options right now.” Three seconds passed before Pete ingeniously thought to tact on a pitiful “It sucks, man. We’ve been planning this for a while and I really don’t want to see it crumble when we’re so close.”

“Yeah,” Andy replied, his voice warm with understanding until he made a squawk of indignation. “Oh, you’re good Wentz, tryin’ to get a tug on my heartstrings with that old school nostalgia.”

“Kale chips and Oreos if you hit up our next practice on Wednesday!” Pete could practically hear the eye roll over the phoneline. He snorted to himself as Andy feigned a groan of disinterest.

“A man after my own heart,” Andy commented in a flat tone, his breath teetering on a chuckle afterwards. “Fine, you brat. Time, place, and we’ll see what happens.”

None of Pete’s bones got shattered when he made the decision to launch out of his chair clumsily from excitement, but it was surely a near thing. The address fell from his tongue easily, the hour following closely behind before Andy paid him a fond farewell and hung up the phone.

Pete’ll definitely never admit to the squee that gushed from his lungs no matter what Patrick the asshole said. “Oh my god. Oh my  _god_ , Patrick.”

Patrick’s grin was blinding, brighter than the sun, yet just as dazzling as their future. Mocking or not, Pete couldn’t help but dig his fingers into the blonde’s cheeks, the soft skin squishing effortlessly between his fingertips.

“Woah, Pete,” and it was said breathlessly, frail in the way that told Pete to chill the hell out because he was invading Patrick’s personal space, making him uncomfortable, but unfortunately Pete was never any good with hints. Without a rhyme or a reason, Pete leaned forward and his lips slotted against a lush and smooth mouth before he pulled away in nothing flat, pumping his arms up high towards the sky.

“Andy-fucking-Hurley, man!” It was cawed out into the air, Pete’s voice a delicate wheeze and crackling under the pressure of his own throat while he ignored the heat thriving in his tummy, shifting and twisting –  _Growing_. “This is fucking insane!”

Patrick’s gaze sent tingles of electricity throughout Pete’s skeleton, flames licking at his cheeks as baby blues overflowed with confusion and shock before it faded away into a nix. “Wait, did you say Andy Hurley?”

“Ain’t no other, Patty boy.”

“Don’t call me that, you ass,” Patrick grumbled, knocking a fist into Pete’s shoulder.

“You’re such a punk, Rick, I swear.”

Pete whooped once again before slumping into the table, a content hum buzzing from him. “What’d ya say, Rickster? We tell Joe the good news and group together for a marathon of the eighties classics I’ve got stockpiled in my closet?”

“Well, pencil neck, if you’ve got Ghostbusters…I’m there,” Patrick grinned, peering up at Pete with an odd twinkle in his eye that made Pete shift awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Pete fingered at the meager hole within the sleeve of his sweatshirt, his brow furrowing as word vomit slammed into him, building up on the back of his tongue before he could put a stop to it. “Uh, sorry about – uh, I’m a little bit more affectionate than people usually prefer.”

Patrick swiftly shrugged him off with a simple “Don’t sweat it,” as if it wasn’t a big deal that Pete had just kissed him out of the blue, lips knocking into his like it was an everyday thing, and it made something ugly broil in Pete’s stomach. Something searing and venomous, barbecuing his insides.

“Great,” Pete nodded while gnawing on the meat of his inner cheek. His words felt like a lie, felt off. Whatever this was didn’t feel great, but he drove it down deep, buried it neatly within the crack of one of his ribs and it was forgotten.

“Alright, Patty, call up Joe because we’ve got a mission.”

“On it.”

***

Pete was sprawled out flat on his back, his vertebrae scraping against the coarse material beneath him while blunt nails were dug deep into the warm flesh that wrapped around his hipbones. Fingers that felt so foreign, yet so sensual that a pleasant coo left his lips and his jaw lolled to the side. Puffs of heated breath rippled over his throat before a mouth, hot and wet, pressed a chaste peck to the jut of his Adam’s apple.

“Jesus,” Pete croaked on the cusp of a ragged exhale. A palm gradually smoothed down his hip to the back of his leg, gripping the meat of his thigh loosely before the lips at his neck closed around fine muscle and a tongue lapped eagerly at his skin. Pete’s eyelids fluttered open sluggishly, a feeble gasp escaping him before his pupils locked onto a pair of familiar black rimmed glasses laid out just a few feet away from him.

“Ugh – ah!” Without noticing the warmth upon his thigh disappearing, a hand snuck down cotton and looped around Pete’s cock. The fingers coiled around him gave his dick a faint squeeze before they began to twirl up and down, thumb rubbing viciously into his head with every upstroke.

Pete had his eyes crammed shut, his bones shivering as the muscles in his legs jumped with every cruel tug upon his dick. The moans punched out of him were smothered by the fist in his mouth. Biting down, his teeth met his reddened knuckles and he keened.

“So damn hot,” was growled into his ear, voice gravel, yet smooth all at once and Pete trembled. He felt heat ground into his knee, the singe of a solid bulge pressing into his bone making him jerk. He was about to come, treading on the verse. White pulsed out of him as he sobbed out a broken “Fuck!” 

Pete’s eyes snapped open, chest heaving with haggard breaths as he glanced around a dimly lit room, the television flashing glimmering fragments of glow across the sofa he was curled up on. The soft murmur of The Lost Boys background sound, flowing over his eardrums when he felt toes dig into his side.

“Nngh,” Pete groaned under his breath. He was still hard, leaking moist within his pajama pants and he wasn’t alone. Patrick was laid opposite from him, one forearm slanted over his eyes with his other hand spread out over his belly.

Pete stared, head tilted in a trance before his hips squirmed uncomfortably, dick heavy between his thighs. He could get up, crawl over Patrick and race to the bathroom, but then he’d risk waking Patrick up. Patrick glancing down at the tent of his pants, the hard curve of his cock put out on display was the last thing Pete wanted.

Pete tried to sleep, his eyes clenched shut with his jaw flexed still, tense, but the throbbing of his pelvis kept distracting him, the sensation of firm hands still within his memory’s reach. A noise of frustration came out of him moments later before his fingers snaked beneath the waist band of his pajamas. A breath of relief left him when his hand wrapped around his dick, pulling.

Pete knew he should’ve stopped. He should’ve let go. He should’ve ran to the restroom and faced the embarrassment, but his palm felt  _so_  damn good. It was only three strokes later when he came, spurting come all over his fingers with a weak wheeze, the feel of calloused hands and gravel on his mind.

Patrick had remained still and silent throughout the entirety of Pete’s sinful deed. His breath was even, body snoozing easily while the fear in Pete’s lungs left him, replaced with a murky feeling manifesting heavily in his belly.

The sweetened sheet of afterglow was already fogging up Pete’s brain by the time he rolled over onto his side, come drying and crusting between his legs. His knees were still shaking by the time he fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Pete forced himself awake at the crack o’ dawn to hop into the shower. He crawled over Patrick, his shin dragging over the other boy’s crotch during his escape. Patrick gave a meager moan, one eye cracking open in confusion. “What’re you doin’ Pete?”

“Bathroom, Rick,” Pete mumbled, the sticky mess in his pants making him grimace as he stumbled upwards. “I’ll be back in like twenty.”

“Mm, okay.”

A furious ball of shame rose in Pete’s throat, his head ducked under the shower head as scalding water splashed at his back. His skin prickled, flushing from the steam and he stretched his arms out. It was three winks later when his fingers folded around his dick, mind filled to the brim with fair skin and dilated pupils. His orgasm seized his body, making him wrench violently to the left and shoot across the shower wall.

The shame was still there, curled up and purring within Pete even after he toweled himself off.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Joe who opened the door on Wednesday evening with Pete two steps behind him. Joe froze, an Oreo stuck out half-way between his lips. Joe stared for a long drawn out moment, his eyes comically large as Andy Hurley filled his sight.

“I thought you two fuckers were full of shit,” were the first words uttered from Joe, his voice gargled as he choked down the rest of the cookie upon his tongue. “What the fuck, Pete?”

Pete scoffed, planting his palms on his hips. “I’ve got connections, bitch.”

“What did he blackmail you with? Seriously,” Joe demanded, gesturing to Andy with his hand. “Don’t look at me like that Pete. We already know you play dirty.”

“I heard there’d be Oreos,” Andy shrugged, flashing a tiny grin while his fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve. His face twisted briefly before he added “Dunno about the kale chips, though.”

Pete groaned at that, head back with his chin tilted towards the ceiling. “What the hell, man. Now who’s going to eat them?”

“You should give them to that chick Elizabeth in pre-calc. She’s all about that health shit.” Joe snorted, stepping to the side to allow Hurley entrance. “Who knows? You might even get a blow job out of it.”

“Wonder if she’ll put out if I tell her my diet is fully organic,” Pete mused in thought before he turned to Andy and said “Shoes off or the misses gets feisty.”

“Right, Patty can’t stand rulebreakers,” Joe continued in a low voice before he tacked on a “No clue how he puts up with Pete, honestly.” Joe easily dodged Pete’s swipe in retribution, fleeing down the stairs before Pete could try another stab.

“That bitch,” Pete swore before hollering out “Rules exist to be broken!”

“So, who’s the wife?” Andy asked, nudging Pete’s shoulder with his own, a smirk on his face. Pete paused, his brows drawing together before a scandalized gasp escaped his mouth.

“I know that look on your face. You’re thinking dirty thoughts right now, Hurley. Absolutely disgraceful,” Pete shook his head, crossing his arms in disappointment. “I expected more from you.”

“I’m made to deceive, kid.”

Pete knew that was bullshit and he was just on the verge of claiming that thought before an annoyed voice interrupted them from the stairs. “Pete, hurry the fuck up!”

Andy raised a brow, pursing his lips in speculation. “The misses, huh?”

Pete nodded gravely, a pout on his face. “The spark in our marriage is gone. He doesn’t even look at me during anymore.” That got a laugh out of Andy, making a warm cloud of smugness manifest in Pete’s chest.

Pete had this.

“We better head downstairs before he blows a fuse and threatens to come up. Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s not pretty,” Pete huffed, crossing his arms. “That fucker bites.”

“I don’t want to hear the details of your sex lives, Wentz,” Andy said, hopping his way down the stairs, wood groaning in protest beneath his soles. “Keep that shit in the bedroom.”

“I’m not fucking my bandmates, man. That’s just unprofessional,” Pete laughed, a slight edge of bitter lining his voice as he stomped along the steps behind the drummer. “A recipe for disaster.”

Joe submerged within the couch cushions glanced at them and butted in with a “Oh, right, because Pete Wentz is notorious for his professionalism.” Pete scowled, cocking a hip to the side. “Joe, I will pee on everything you love.”

Patrick scrutinized them both for a long moment, fingernails clenching tight into the plastic of his bottle of water before he sighed out a breath of forced disdain and waddled over to shake Andy’s hand.

“You have permission to run any time,” Patrick grumbled, gulping down a swig of water seconds later. With a wet breath, he continued. “Seriously, we’d understand.”

“Won’t stop us from chasing you down, though, so be warned,” Pete added, tilting his head to the right with his signature puppy dog eyes put on display in feigned innocence. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

“It’s too late for you now, Hurley. We’ve already gotten a taste of your scent,” Joe nodded, strumming a series of ominous notes from his instrument laid flat on his lap. Pete and Joe both let out an eerie cackle in unison while Patrick’s lips cracked open into a tiny smile. “With these two, you’re probably doomed to damnation or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Andy repeated, expression deadpanned. “This’ll be an experience, I’m sure.”

“You better fucking believe it,” Pete crowed, flopping onto the couch in front of him and making Joe squawk from the bounce of his impact. “We’re going to blow your god damn mind, Hurley!”

“Pete, I swear to god if you break something again, I’m going to murder you,” Patrick told him through clenched teeth, to which Pete stuck his tongue out at him.

Their band practice that Wednesday went off without a hitch. Playing with Andy had been an out-of-body experience that had lit Pete’s nerves on fire and made his skin tingle relentlessly. It was spot on –fucking legendary. Almost as if the missing puzzle piece to their assemble had emerged and wedged itself back into the picture, aligning itself oh so perfectly with the rest.

“A few weeks, huh?” Was all Andy said, but Pete grinned wide and whooped. Andy sighed, shirtless and shining with sweat while he rested his drumsticks on the top of his thigh. “God, I’m easy.”

“And that’s just fine with me,” Pete nodded jerkily, with Patrick laughing beside him. Without thinking, Pete lifted a hand and prodded at the blonde’s right cheek with a single finger. “Your smile is like sunshine lighting up a room.”

Patrick’s cheeks went scarlet, nose scrunching up while he grumbled in annoyance and batted Pete away with his hands. “We’re never using that in any of our songs, you corny motherfucker.” Pete hummed a frail noise. “Fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it.”

“Enough with the flirting, boys, we’ve got a fucking tour to plan,” Joe hollered over them, arms spread out from his sides. “We’ve got transportation, funds, instruments, but parental permission? Patrick?”

“Uh,” was all Patrick said, and that was enough.

“You didn’t even ask, did you? Rick,” Pete shook his head, sighing. At that, Patrick looked affronted, radiating displeasure as he replied with “I told her, but it’s undecided.”

“Technically we’ve got an adult with us,” Pete drawled, flashing a sly grin at Andy. With an affirmative shake of his head, Pete claimed “There’s absolutely no way they’ll say no!”

Patrick, however, still appeared dubious at this declaration. “How can you be so sure?” Pete shrugged, his teeth still happily advertised. “Who could possibly say no to Andy?”

All three of them glanced at one another before moving their gaze to the drummer, who stared blankly back at them until his features expressed an understanding and Andy muttered “Oh, god damn it.”

***

Pete was buzzing with nerves. He had his face hidden behind his locker, one eye peeping out as he peered at Patrick bent over down the hall, scavenging through his backpack. His hair was muddled, disheveled bundles of strands sticking up in odd places while his white T-shirt bunched over his biceps whenever he moved. Pete forced his eyes away for a moment, blinking furiously, and his chest thumping a little too hard for him to focus properly.

With a huff, Pete slammed his locker shut, secured the strap of his bag around his shoulder and marched towards the other boy. Stood in front of him, Pete unzipped his bag and pulled out an orange and white baseball cap before plopping it atop of Patrick’s head. The blonde voiced a startled yelp while Pete rolled his eyes. “Happy birthday, you ass.”

Patrick yanked the hat off, looking at it with an expression of awe before his eyes flicked back up to Pete. “How did you –“

“You mom mentioned it. So, emphasis on you being an ass,” Pete interrupted with a cluck of his tongue. “Besides, remember that birthday party you had when you were, what? Nine?”

“Fuck, you remember that?” Patrick asked, letting out a wild laugh, eyes bright. Pete, despite himself, smiled with his fingers curled up into his palms, hands clammy. “Didn’t your parents force you come?”

“Yeah, but the cake was good,” Pete shrugged, the skin around his eyes crinkling as they squinted, the picture stirring in his brain. Patrick’s laugh strengthened at that, steadily marching on the line of hysterical while he pushed the hat back onto his head. “If I remember correctly, nobody actually ate any cake.”

“Right, two kids started a food fight,” Pete agreed, pursing his lips in thought. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t one of them  _you_?”

Patrick’s face scrunched up in heed, a low sound in his throat. “Might’ve been, but I’m definitely certain you threw the first handful.”

“That is absurd, how dare you slander me in such a way,” Pete harrumphed, crossing his arms. “The birthday boy definitely did it.  _Nobody_  expects it to be the birthday boy.”

“We spent a good three hours cleaning up that backyard,” Patrick said, his lips twisting into a frown. Pete’s shoulders shivered at the memory of four eyes glaring holes into the backs of their tiny necks, two horribly disappointed mothers stood next to one another with their hands planted firmly on their hips. “Yeah, that sucked.”

“That cake  _was_  good, though,” Patrick commented, his fingers digging slightly into the hood of his new cap. “So, why the hat?”

Pete shrugged, cheeks reddening in embarrassment while he wringed his hands. “Dunno, easy option,” Pete answered curtly before he stupidly babbled out “I mean, you’re always so worried about your hair and orange is, uh, your favorite color, so I just thought –“  Before Pete could finish, a chin was hooked around his shoulder and arms were cradled around his back,  _hugging_  him.

“Oh,” Pete exhaled, the air in his lungs suddenly dissipating. He could hear Patrick’s faint chuckles smothered right into the skin under his ear and then a quiet “Thanks,” was what killed him. Fortunately, Patrick let go before Pete spontaneous combusted, but the lack of heat made Pete’s chest ache.

“Yeah,” Pete croaked, clearing his throat before forcing a smile. “I mean, I never would’ve guessed the enemy of my youth would turn out to be one of my best friends.” He cringed seconds later, the line sounding just a touch more sentimental than he intended it to. The regret wasn’t so insistent the second Patrick smiled at him, though. His grin big and so god damn shiny that Pete ducked his head and had to look away.

It was clear as day that Patrick had sensed his bashfulness when he changed the subject with “One more month.” Pete paused, the school bell ringing shrill in his eardrums. His hand gripped at his backpack strap and his brain sparked with excitement. “Oh, hell yes.”

***

The sun was blaring down on them, blazing, and hot as fuck as they packed their stuff into Joe’s van. Pete’s underarms felt sticky, his body damp with sweat as it shook with every step. Pete’s body had been reverberating all morning, his feet unbalanced as he carried his bag over his shoulder down the driveway.

“Joe why does the back smell like Cheez Whiz,” Patrick questioned, a look of suspicion on his face as his nose twitched, sniffing the air.

Joe’s lips quirked, plunking his bag down before he answered with “Probably because this one-time Pete made a bet that he could down an entire can of Cheez Whiz and it didn’t end well.”

“Hey, I won that bet. Now, it wasn’t my proudest moment, but I won,” Pete said from the front seat, his chest puffed out in exaggeration.

“The only thing you won was your vomit, a stomach ache, and five dollars, which you spent on Pepto Bismol.”

“Remind me to never play a game of truth or dare with you two,” Patrick stated in a repulsed voice, his eyebrows furrowed in bemusement. “Sometimes I wonder how you guys are even still alive.”

Pete shrugged, spreading his legs out on the dashboard. “It wasn’t my proudest moment,” he reiterated.

Pete let his head fall back against the seat, a ghost of air falling from his lips. It’s the big day. The day they head off. Pete had already said his farewells to his folks, a red smudge of lipstick leftover on his cheek to prove it their encounter. It was fleeting, short and brief, but he had them both on speed dial in case something went horribly wrong.

Persuading their parents had been a breeze once they had Andy on their side. However, Patrick’s mother had been hesitant to begin with, glancing at Andy’s tattoos distrustfully until he opened his mouth, a voice too sweet sliding off his tongue with a gentle smile made up on his face.

“You boys better be careful,” Patricia had said in a weary voice, expression concerned as she chewed at her bottom lip with her front teeth. “Now Patrick, be safe and say no to drugs.”

“Mom,” Patrick had groaned in embarrassment, covering his face with his hands. Pete, of course, had focused his gaze on his shoes, his throat straining as he forced down the laugh bubbling up in his chest. With a cough, he folded his hands behind the small of his back and straightened his shoulders.

“Ma’am, we’ll be good.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I know you will.” Patrick’s mom had made sure they packed the necessities and if they had an appropriate amount of funds, even making sure to sneak a few bills into Patrick’s bag for extra food. She had given both Patrick and Pete a snug hug before pointing a single red fingernail at Andy. “You better look after these boys, y’hear me?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Andy had said, eyes wide and his forehead sweating bullets. Patrick’s mom had the talent of being terrifying when she needed to be, which was definitely a trait Patrick had inherited. What, with darkened eyes and reddened ears, Patrick could morph from adorable into the devil himself within a split second, which kind of had Pete impressed.

The firm slam of a car door snapped Pete out of his thoughts, blinking his eyes open, he saw Joe sat in the driver’s seat, fingers stretched white over the steering wheel. Andy was propped up in the back along with Patrick, both chatting to one another freely.

Pete felt a spike of something hideous within his lower belly, jealousy flooded his veins, poisoning the skin of his organs one by one without falter. The bright-eyed expression on Patrick’s face made Pete squirm uncomfortably, his face hot and pathetic. As quick as it came, Pete shoved it back down into the void of his gut and whooped out loud obnoxiously, wiggling his shoes out into the vacant air in front of them.

“Let’s get this show on the road, bitches!”

The painful weight in his chest lifted all at once when Patrick cheered along with him seconds later. Pete grinned, glancing over his shoulder to find Patrick’s pupils zeroed in on him, steadily holding their gaze for a few seconds before a small smile of his own broke out on his face. The bizarre flutter in Pete’s chest made his head ache, but he paid it no mind and ultimately thought it to be trivial.

“Now remember kids, crack is whack.”

***

“We play any show we can manage, even if they pay us in pizza,” hit a little too close to home. If Pete was honest, they’d batted a homerun with that saying. They tried their best to void parties because typically teenagers and college kids liked to cop out last minute and try their hand at compensating with edibles. Joe, on the other hand, seemed to be okay with that.

“We need money for gas, you dumbass,” Patrick groaned, voice muffled with his nose squished into a pillow while Pete nodded his head in agreement.

Joe made a noncommittal noise, waving a hand in their direction. “Whatever.”

They were none too picky, they played at cramped bars and shitty venues. All the while, Pete got to bounce all over the place and rile up whatever crowd they had that night and he couldn’t be happier. They took turns on who drove, sometimes fighting over it with a game of rock-paper-scissor, which held Joe at a severe disadvantage because he barely if ever used anything other than rock.

Driving at night always put Pete on edge, dark streets with the silence of the car left him with only his arbitrary thoughts and while they weren’t necessarily bad, nor harmful, he’ll never be fond of the sound of his own voice, despite what others have said about him being cocky.

Pete hadn’t noticed it, not at first, but whenever it was his turn to drive during the wee hours of the night, Patrick had his own routine of sitting up front in the passenger’s seat, eyes kept open, but his actions groggy. It’s uncomfortably intimate in a way, just the two of them alone together in the front of the van with faint snores as their background music.

“Hey, if you’re exhausted you can go to bed, man,” Pete had tried once upon a time, noting the dark circles beneath Patrick eyes, but the blonde had only snorted at him.

“You’re not my mom, so you can’t order me around.” It was an out, that much was clear, so Pete squinted for a moment before shrugging with pouted lips. There wasn’t a need to read between the lines if Patrick didn’t want him to, but it didn’t stop the budding rose of appreciation within his body blooming.

“Someone alert the presses,” Pete yawned into his fist, eyes half closed. “Patrick’s gone wild.”

After that, Pete made it into a routine, occasionally letting Joe win on purpose, just so he could spend the next few hours within Patrick’s orbit, circling and circling. It was oddly addicting, the bright and sunny atmosphere luring him and all his foul parts near. Even when Patrick wasn’t speaking with his mouth he was there, sat right next to Pete as if he knew just what Pete was going through.

Every so often, Pete let himself tread too deep, thinking on just the cusp of too hard before he buried himself into a hole and broke down. It freaked him out, his attachment towards the other boy that had developed so effortlessly. Hell, the thought made his entire brain throb, sore and angry. It felt too important, too fragile within Pete’s mind because it was good. Good meant temporary.

Good always faded.

It fucked Pete up, the constant fuzz of static in his brain as he pitter-pattered the tip of his fingers across the steering wheel. He gritted his teeth, his thoughts etching something painful into his heart, an insecurity of loss. It made him want to grab hold of Patrick skin, sink his claws deep into muscle and never let go.

Pete’s fingers flexed over the wheel, clutching into a firm grip with the skin of his fingers pulled taut. He kept his body still, muscles frozen. He wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

Pete knew better.

***

It wasn’t until their next show that Pete even realized the gravity of the situation. The show was good – _great_ , with a nice venue and a crowd so wild it sent him into a delirious state, crazed and jittery. The sound resonated into his skin, bled into his muscles, and rippled through his bones.

It wasn’t any of that that drove him towards the brink of insanity, however. No, it was his vocalist, Patrick, losing himself within song and bellowing out lyrics one after another. Patrick’s demeanor radiated a blinding sense of confidence Pete had never witnessed, which left the bassist in awe.

Patrick’s face was covered, shielded by the hood of his hat tilted over his eyes, cheeks pink with damp hair curling around the back of his ears. Talented fingers impulsive and electric, skittering across cords with a solidified purpose. The stage lights made him glow, milky skin glistening with a sheen of sweat coating him from head to toe.

Pete wanted to taste him. 

Pete’s brain was muddled, stupid, and reckless with his adrenal gland overtaxing itself. He hopped three big steps towards the singer, barreling his way through Patrick’s comfort zone before he rested his head against the blonde’s shoulder. The heat of the other boy made Pete purr, trilling out a wee sigh of pleasure.

The arm beneath Pete’s head twitched from the contact, a sparse tremor rising within Patrick’s tone of voice, startled and confused. People hooted, catcalled, the sudden show of affection pleading interest until Patrick shrugged him off, nostrils flared.

Pete forced a grin, laughing out an ugly sort of braying noise before loping off to the side. It was stupid, the gnawing frost of rejection weighing over him, uncontrollable and violent.

Patrick jabbed Pete in the stomach after the show, several blows of weak and flimsy punches into Pete’s intestines until he gave a glower and called Pete a dick.

It was twenty minutes later, another band on stage when Pete got mauled down by a group of girls, asking about their music and making heart eyes at him. He was all toothy smiles after that, hips loose and relaxed as he rambled on and on about their band. It wasn’t until he noticed Patrick feet away, chattering on to a small girl with short blonde hair when Pete’s smile abandoned him and left a scowl in its wake. 

Pete didn’t try anything, wasn’t dumb enough to actually voice his detest, but that didn’t put a stop to the ever-growing swarm of jealousy inside him. It was malicious and evil, made him feel gross and venomous. The feeling only intensified once he lost track of them. He tossed and turned his head back and forth throughout the crowd, looking for even the tiniest glint of orange, but was left unsuccessful.

Pete was snuggled up in the back of the van an hour later with earbuds plugged into his ears streaming out words of filth and furious instrumental. His form was hidden in a blanket, only a lump of comforter visible to the naked eye.

Pete’s stomach churned when he heard the door to the side of the van slide open. He paused the song and looked up, curiosity getting the better of him, but unfortunately, the bruise on Patrick’s neck only made him want to vomit.

“Well, I see you had fun,” Pete jibed, aiming for humorous, but finishing with a bitter aftertaste that made him feel nauseous afterwards.

Patrick paused, pressing a hand to the mark before he rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

It  _hurt_. It hurt like hell, but Pete still reveled in the fact that he got to cuddle Patrick for the rest of the night while that girl didn’t. Swiftly, Pete shoved his palms into Patrick’s chest, pushing the other boy down and crawling on board. He grinned, nuzzling his nose up against the singer’s belly with a pleasant hum.

With a grunt, Patrick succumbed, digging his knuckles into Pete’s hair. “Your oddly affectionate today. Did someone spit in your coffee?”

“Shut up,” Pete mumbled, eyes drooping as his fingers pinched at softness. Patrick squeaked, a pained noise in his throat before he tugged on a bunch of Pete’s strands. “Ow – ow! Fuck, okay! I’ll be good!”

“You better, you ass,” Patrick laughed, his bouncing chest shifting Pete from side to side. Agony was the only word Pete had left in his vocabulary to describe his feelings at this point.

Agony.

***

Their next show is only an echo of prior events with a couple of girls frolicking around Patrick and trailing their glittery nails up and down his arms. Pete should’ve been happy for him, really, but his chest felt hollow. Guilt spilled into his mind, tainting him gradually until it slammed into him and worsened his mood.

Pete was a goddamn phony of a friend.

A fucking  _sham_.

It was incoming, but Pete hopped off the deep end after that.

Breathing heavily, Pete twisted his foot around and marched through a hoard of people, searching for a hunk of meat to sink his teeth into. His target was easily found, hunched over in a corner with a few other people, grinning big and familiar. He’s two inches taller than Pete, blonde hair swooped to the side, with glasses framing his eyes.

Pete grinned sharp and obvious, jutting his hips out with his eyes half open. “You’re in that one band, right? The bassist?” It was a piece of cake reeling people in, the band card being his number one entryway.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Pete smirked, tilting his chin up.

That was all it took.

Bony fingers, tough and lithe, shoved into him, pushing Pete through the bathroom door before he could even blink. A mouth was on his neck, teeth nibbling into his skin and making him groan high in his throat. The guy swiftly left his sight, sinking onto his knees and with a zip, he yanked Pete’s jeans down his thighs.

Pete came down the guy’s throat five minutes later with two fingers curled inside his ass making him see white. His hips jerked, whimpers spilling from him while he trembled throughout his climax until he was nudging at the guy’s shoulders, yanking him up and returning the favor.

Pete was outside the club ten minutes after that, eight digits of ink scrawled into his forearm that’ll be washed away without a care in the world. He felt filthy, the grime from the bathroom floor smearing the knees of his jeans black with the taste of come on the back of his tongue. His hair was a jumbled mess of strands, bruises lined his throat and his clothes were wrinkled to hell.

The walk of shame towards the van was short, but awful nonetheless. Patrick was sat up in the van, legs swinging lazily in the air outside of the car door with a phone held up to his ear.

“We’re still alive, mom. No, I haven’t dropped any weight. Andy and Joe are getting food – don’t know where Pete is, though,” Patrick muttered in bored voice, scratching idly at his nose while his body swayed back and forth. The sight of him was fucking crippling, Pete just about landed flat on his ass.

Patrick’s face scrunched for a brief moment, features withering until he looked up, his eyes landing on Pete’s wobbly form. Pete froze, his blood going cold when Patrick’s pupils dawdled over the expanse of his neck, ogling and judging.

With a grunt, Patrick’s expression went sour. “Pete’s  _fine_ , mom.” It sounded like an accusation, an insult, and it pissed Pete off. Patrick hung up seconds later, murmuring a short goodbye. He scowled at Pete afterwards, shoving the phone into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“Looks like you had fun,” Patrick recited in a snappy tone as if it were a joke.

Pete wanted to punch him, but he settled with “Yeah, yeah I did.” When Patrick’s souring expression went livid, Pete didn’t gain any satisfaction.

“Cool,” Patrick grumbled, sliding his feet back into the van. Pete’s eyes locked onto gravel, his neck aching in strain from the angle. With shaky fingers, he tugged off his shirt and hurled himself into the van. Patrick was already turned away from him, fiddling away on his phone with a glower on his face.

Pete stared, perplexed as he analyzed Patrick’s huddled form with a frown. Grasping at his blanket, he heaved it over his shoulders and eyeballed the roof of the van until Andy and Joe came back, the smell of grease wafting through his nose.

Pete ate two French fries before he promptly passed out, curled up within a corner of the van while his stomach burbled unhappily. His dreams were filled with sickly sweet touches and velvety smooth words that left his brain full of ugly thoughts the next morning.

Pete sat burrowed in the back, staring out of the window while Patrick drove with Andy in the passenger seat. His eyes chased after drops of water dribbling over glass, rain pelting heavily against the van’s exterior. Joe was at his side, snoozing snores into the floor, toes twinging along to his dreams. Any other day, Pete would’ve drawn on Joe’s face, but today he just wasn’t in the mood.

Pete scrawled words of isolation and heartbreak onto his upper thigh until he passed out once again, expression one of misery.

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this fic is already actually finished. I just gotta write out a few more scenes and the ending, so this will be completed, but it'll only be about 5 lengthy chapters. Hope you like! <3


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